


Bind My Wandering Heart to Thee

by idoltina



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:39:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5600071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idoltina/pseuds/idoltina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times that Regina gives or receives Yuletide gifts in the Enchanted Forest, and one she gives in Storybrooke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenlocksley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenlocksley/gifts).



> **Warnings:** adult language, allusions to domestic and parental abuse, allusions to dub-con, implied miscarriage, implied murder, implied sexual situations, mentions of character death, references to potentially disordered eating, references to potential previous alcoholism, references to vomiting, vague references to previous canonical rape
> 
> Written as a gift for [secretsantaandsmores](http://www.secretsantaandsmores.tumblr.com/)’ [Outlaw Queen Secret Santa Gift Exchange 2015](http://secretsantaandsmores.tumblr.com/info).

**one.**

The stone of the steps is cold beneath Regina’s bare feet as she makes her way downstairs, fingers stiff and sore as she grips the handle of the candle holder tightly. It’s very late, she knows -- she thinks that perhaps even the servants have gone to bed by now -- but she’s determined to see this through after all of her hard work. She shivers when she catches a glimpse of the snowfall through one of the windows in the downstairs hallway. She’s heard the servants talk about it amongst themselves; they say it’s shaping up to be the harshest winter any of them have ever seen. It’s only her family’s first winter out here in the country; her skin hasn’t acclimated to the sharp snap of snow quite yet, still too used to the stinging chill of sea breeze she’d grown up around for the first seven years of her life. The prospect of the rest of the impending winter storms is something she’s very much not looking forward to, and Regina wonders, idly, if perhaps the weather is partially to blame for how exceptionally foul Mother’s mood has been lately.

Hopefully _this_ will lighten Mother’s mood considerably.

She stops just short of the threshold of the front sitting room, though, when she hears _snap-crackle-pop_ of wood burning in the fireplace. She’s not surprised that Mother’s awake or that she still has a fire going, but there’s something… _off_ about the atmosphere that gives Regina pause. There are no other voices, no muttered incantations, no sound of bustling movement. But there is something else, there, underneath the crackling of the fireplace that makes Regina’s breath freeze like ice in her lungs -- a very slow, all too quiet _thump-thump_ that seems to be keeping time like a metronome.

It’s like the house has a heartbeat.

Regina swallows hard and takes a step into the room, trying very hard to keep her hands from shaking. “Mother?” Mother glances over her shoulder, eyes narrowing a little when her gaze settles on Regina, but Regina remains undeterred and takes another step forward. “What is that?” she breathes, ears straining as she tries to pinpoint the source of the sound.

“That’s none of your concern,” Mother says sharply, turning around to face her properly. “What are you doing awake and out of bed at this hour?”

Regina hesitates for a moment in her movement and just barely stops herself from biting her lip. “I… wanted to give you something.”

“This couldn’t wait until morning?” Mother asks, sounding tired.

Regina shifts her weight from one leg to the other and tries not to fidget. “Well, I -- I just --”

“Don’t stammer, dear.”

Regina takes a breath to steady herself before trying again. “I only just finished working on this,” she explains, “but I don’t have anything for Daddy, yet. I didn’t want to upset him.”

Mother mutters something under her breath that sounds an awful lot like _should be used to disappointment by now_ , but she heaves a great sigh and settles down on the couch. “Come here,” she beckons. “Let’s get this over with.”

Encouraged by the fact that Mother hasn’t done more than give her a mild reprimand, Regina sets the candle holder down on a small table and closes the distance between them before sinking down on the couch next to her mother. Her hand moves toward one of the pockets of her night robe, but she stops shy of dipping her fingers inside. She should explain, first, before Mother asks too many questions and Regina inevitably fumbles over her answers. “I know you don’t like to celebrate Yuletide much,” she begins, wanting to make sure Mother feels understood, “but you’ve seemed… unhappy about our move here, so I thought perhaps a gift might help.”

Mother raises her eyebrows. “A gift?”

“Yes,” Regina says, a touch too quick and eager. “And one of the maids -- Miss Laura -- suggested that I make something myself,” she adds, finally reaching into her pocket to pull out the small, embroidered handkerchief she’s just finished. “I’ve been practicing my needlework,” she admits softly, holding it out in offering. “It’s not much, and I wasn’t sure which color you would like best, but I know how much you like having your name on things, and I thought this would be useful --”

“It’s very practical,” Mother admits, and Regina _beams_ , unable to hold back a smile. “The purple was a good choice. Your stitches could be a little cleaner, though.”

Regina’s smile falters a little at that, but she tries not to take it to heart. Most of Mother’s remarks have been positive. “I suppose I could have practiced a bit more,” she allows, “spent a bit more time on it.”

“Yes,” Mother sighs, “though that will really only get you so far.” She takes a moment to study the stitches more closely, thumb tracing the curves of the letters of her name. “I suppose I should thank you, dear,” she adds, setting the handkerchief down on her lap, “but I want to be very clear about something.”

Regina’s stomach does that funny little flip-flop it always does when she knows Mother’s about to criticize her, and even as she presses a hand flat against her belly to try and keep herself calm, she can’t help the way worry worms its way into her thoughts. Mother doesn’t really like it, Mother would have preferred the red, Mother really wanted something else, Regina should have wrapped it like a proper gift, Regina should have --

She starts a little and inhales sharply when Mother’s hand grips hers, pulling her back into focus. But where Mother’s touch is firm, it is also surprisingly gentle, and Regina finds herself relaxing a little. “Do you know why I don’t allow this family to celebrate Yuletide, Regina?” Mother asks. Regina shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak at the moment, but Mother doesn’t chastise her for it. “Yuletide is much the same as any other holiday or festival, Regina. They’re all about remembrance or celebration of some sort, but they’re also relatively meaningless in the grand scheme of things. All of this nonsense of creating memorials or altering decorations or giving gifts -- it’s all strictly sentimental, dear.”

“And that’s… a bad thing,” Regina says, trying very hard not to make it sound like a question for fear of Mother being annoyed that she’s not keeping up.

“It’s unnecessary,” Mother says, and coming from her, it almost sounds kind. “It’s customary between those with titles -- kings and lords and dukes and the like -- but that’s always about business. It’s a burden, for other people.”

“People like us,” Regina assumes, but this time, she’s wrong.

“ _No_ ,” Mother snaps, _tsk_ ing a bit when Regina makes a slightly startled noise. She works her jaw a little, purses her lips as she gives Regina a once over, but her touch is once again gentle as she reaches out to grip Regina’s chin with her free hand. “No,” Mother says again, much softer this time. “No, I have… _such_ high aspirations for you, darling. And that’s why this is so important. Giving gifts to people out of affection is an unkindness, Regina. All they do is weigh one down, hold them back. We cannot afford to be sentimental. I appreciate that you’ve managed to grasp the difficulty of this move on me, dear, but you needn’t waste your time on trinkets like these.”

Regina’s brow wrinkles a little as she tries to sort out what Mother’s just told her, but any logical thought is drowned out by a swell of sadness in her chest, rising like a wave as it builds toward its crest. She cannot help the way her shoulders fall or the way tears sting at her eyes at the utter sense of sheer disappointment she feels. She doesn’t think twice about the risk of pulling her face out of Mother’s hold in order to drop her gaze to her lap. “I’m sorry,” she says, voice barely above a whisper and just shy of breaking. “I just wanted to do something nice for you.”

“ _Regina_ ,” Mother says, and she sounds very much like she’s starting to lose her patience. “Look at me.” So Regina does, because she wouldn’t dare disobey, but she knows she’s failed at hiding her disappointment, knows Mother must be able to see the wetness in her eyes and the tremble of her chin and -- “Do you know what you can do for me?” Mother asks, and while her voice is still clear, firm, the edge is gone. “You can -- sit up straight, dear, shoulders back. You can focus on your studies. You can work diligently at your etiquette lessons. You can resume your riding lessons once the weather improves. You can _practice your needlework_ ,” she says pointedly, picking up the handkerchief in her lap. “You’re almost eight, Regina. These next few years are going to be very important in helping you prepare for your future, sweetheart. The kindest thing you can do for me is to work very hard to be the very best.”

Regina takes a breath -- in, out -- and tries to find the light in Mother’s words. They’re not… _bad_ things to want, really. They’re things any respectable person would trouble themselves with excelling at, and while Regina doesn’t care all that much what other people think (well, people other than Mother, anyway), she knows how important this is to Mother. One’s trajectory must always be moving up, after all. And while some of the lessons -- like etiquette -- Mother subjects her to are really rather boring for her, Regina _has_ found joy in some of the others. She enjoys the luxury of being able to pick and choose many of the books she reads in her studies, and she _is_ rather looking forward to resuming riding lessons in the spring.

Mother wants the best for her, and it’s hard, Regina thinks, to find fault in that.

“I’ll do my best,” Regina promises.

“Good,” Mother says, and Regina thinks Mother might almost _smile_. “Right now, however, you need to go back upstairs and get into bed. I won’t tolerate this kind of insubordination again.”

The word is a little odd to her ear, but she can gather enough from Mother’s tone to understand what it might mean. “Yes, Mother.”

She’s quiet as she tightens the tie on her night robe again, hand cold without Mother’s touch even as she reaches for the candle holder again. She doesn’t ask for so much as a kiss goodnight; Mother’s not the type, anyway, and it doesn’t feel right after the conversation they’ve just had. She longs for Daddy’s embrace, for the warmth of his smile and the gentle way he talks, but he’s long retired to his chambers for the night, and Mother, Regina thinks, definitely wouldn’t like it.

She lingers at the threshold again, though, not wanting to try and sleep with the way wave of disappointment in her stomach has crashed and stirred up unease. She glances over her shoulder, breath held in her chest as she struggles to find the right words to make this okay, but any thought of speaking up again is gone as soon as her eyes land on Mother. She’s risen from the couch and moved back toward the fireplace in the last moment, handkerchief still in hand as her thumb traces over the letters again. The wave swells in Regina’s chest again, but it feels different, this time.

This time, it feels like hope.

And then Mother tosses the handkerchief into the fire, and Regina’s hope goes up in flames.

In the morning, Miss Laura is gone, and none of the other servants will look Regina in the eye.


	2. Chapter 2

**two.**

It’s nearing the end of December -- mere weeks before Regina’s seventeenth birthday -- when the yellows and oranges of autumn begin to fade away, and still Regina finds herself wondering if winter is, in fact, coming at all this year. Usually, they’ve had their first winter storm by now, have lost much of the light during waking hours and have had to start wearing extra layers for warmth. This year, however, the chill that normally accompanies the loss of light is not nearly so frigid, and they’ve had little more than a small rainstorm here and there in the last two months combined.

The odd weather has thrown their household off balance and disrupted the servants’ regular rhythm and routine, but Mother, surprisingly, can hardly be bothered to so much as _notice_. She’s spent much of her time in recent weeks locked away in her vault, disappearing for hours at a time. Regina’s not entirely sure what Mother’s doing down there, but Regina’s not all that sure she really _wants_ to know, anyway. She’s only had the courage to sneak in there once before, more out of burning curiosity than anything else, and she’d barely gotten a glimpse of a few books and vials before she’d happened upon the hearts, and, well. Regina’s not sure she could handle the sight of them again; knowing they’re there at all is enough to make her stomach churn.

Still, whatever Mother has been doing down there recently -- reading or researching or preparing potions or practicing dark magic of sorts -- has kept her preoccupied enough for her not to take notice of the disruptions of the household. She’ll know if Regina skips a lesson or alters her meal plan, but she won’t know if Regina stays up later than she’s supposed to by reading in the library. She won’t know if Daddy slips Regina a piece of chocolate or if she extends her riding lessons by an extra hour.

And she won’t know, for example, that Regina is returning Rocinante to the stables in the dark tonight, well beyond when she’s supposed to be out of the house, much less as far as the pastures. Regina’s not foolhardy enough to try riding or jumping without daylight, but she’d desperately needed some fresh air after tonight’s dinner. Mother’s been mentioning the prospect of marriage more and more in the last year, and tonight’s remark at dinner about _foaling season_ , of all things, was enough to make Regina lose her appetite. But she’d known she’d never hear the end of it if she’d left food on her plate, knew Mother might resort to magic to make her obey, so Regina had finished her dinner in silence and forced down every last bite. Mother had retreated to her vault, after that, and Regina had gone outside to take Rocinante for a walk.

Her lantern is growing dim by the time she reaches the bottom of the hill that leads up to the stables, but there’s enough light coming from the building to guide her the rest of the way, should her candle go out. The temperature has dropped considerably in the time she’s been out here; she can scarce feel her fingers and her breath keeps coming out in spirals in front of her. Gently, she urges Rocinante up the hill with her, murmuring encouragingly in response to his nickers. She’s halfway up the hill when a silhouette appears in the doorway of the stables, and for one brief moment, she feels a flare of panic rise up inside of her.

But it’s not Mother, she realizes quickly. Mother’s not that tall, she has better posture than this person, and she’s very rarely at the stables outside of occasionally watching one of Regina’s lessons. It must be Daniel, Regina thinks, waiting for her to return. He’d helped her lead Rocinante out of the stables earlier, but Regina hadn’t expected him to linger and help her upon her return. The gesture is enough to make her stomach flip pleasantly, but she pushes it down and away and shakes her head as she climbs the last of the hill. He’s a new hire, this year, probably equally wary of the lack of winter storms and eager to impress his employers with an attentive nature. His presence doesn’t mean anything else -- not even with the way he’s always offered her a hand to help her up onto Rocinante should she need it, not even with the way his eyes goes soft and warm and his lips curve into a smile whenever Regina enters the stables.

It doesn’t mean anything.

It doesn’t.

Still, she’s perfectly warm in her greeting when she finally reaches the top of the hill, and she gratefully accepts his help in returning Rocinante to his stall while she tugs her gloves on for warmth. She feels a little foolish, not taking them with her on her walk, but she’d been so hellbent on getting out into the fresh air that she hadn’t even stopped to consider the way weather might change this close to Yuletide.

She starts a little when Daniel brushes his hand against her shoulder, eyes falling to watch his movement. “Sorry, milady,” he says, the barest hint of a laugh in his voice. “It’s just -- snow.” She blinks in surprise as he brushes off a dusting of white from her other shoulder. “It started as you were coming up the hill. Did you not notice?”

“No,” Regina admits. “I didn’t.” Daniel’s lips twist into what looks like an amused smile as he shakes his head. And then his hand is gently pushing her hair back off of her shoulders (there’s probably snow in her hair, is all) and Regina’s heart feels like it’s grown three sizes, beating and bruising its way up her throat and taking up all available space in her lungs until she feels as though she cannot breathe. Mother would have his head if she happened upon them like this -- even if it’s innocent, even if he’s only so much as helping her, and still, Regina cannot manage to pull away.

She wonders if he’s noticed the way she looks at him, too.

“Are you alright, Miss?” he asks, pausing in his movements in a way that leaves his fingertips lingering against the skin of her neck. “You’re trembling.”

She tries to take a breath and fails, doesn’t bother to reach up to push his hands away. His skin is like fire against her own and it wakes up something inside of her, her heartbeat a constant thrum beneath her skin. He has to feel that, he must, he must be able to hear it because she can, it’s like a roaring sea wind in her ears and she still has not answered his question. “Just cold,” she says, and it is every bit a lie.

“I can lend you my cloak for the walk back,” he offers, already moving to undo his clasp.

Regina misses the warmth of his touch immediately, but its absence affords her the ability to think a little more clearly. “I’ll, um, I’ll be fine,” she insists, clearing her throat a little as she takes a step away from him. “I should really head up to the house, though, so… good night, Daniel. Thank you for your help.”

She’s barely turned around and taken two steps toward the doorway when he calls after her. “Regina, wait.” She bites back a smile at the sound of her name on his tongue and turns around to face him again, eyebrows arched in silent question. It’s his turn to hesitate, now, eyes clearly studying her before he moves to dig through his satchel. She watches him curiously, her interest piqued when he unearths a small, brown parcel from the bag. Another moment of hesitation -- whether it’s the last, she’s not sure -- and then he’s taking a step toward her, his gait awkward in its attempted calculation. “The servants have told me that your mother is not fond of Yuletide,” he says.

Regina draws in a breath once she realizes his meaning, eyeing the package apprehensively. “No,” Regina says quietly. “She’s not.”

Daniel bites his lip and weighs the package in his hand, clearly debating. “Do you share the same sentiment?”

She could almost _laugh_ at the word choice, but he’s clearly just as nervous as she is about the prospect of this, and, well. He’s far too kind to her for her to so much as _think_ about laughing at him like that. So Regina swallows down and around her fear and takes a step forward herself, hands clasped together. “No,” she says, “I don’t.”

A grin slowly spreads across Daniel’s face and it’s _infectious_ , creeping onto Regina’s lips and cheeks in reply. “Not to worry, Miss,” he assures her gamely. “I won’t tell her if you don’t.” And _that_ sentiment settles into Regina’s soul, takes up some of the solitary spaces where she feels most alone in the times she stands up to Mother when things get to be a little too overwhelming. It’s far too kind of him to take up arms for her like this, especially when he hardly knows her. But the value of it -- of camaraderie and companionship -- is too much for her to refuse, and any protests she might have die quickly in her throat.

“The servants have said that you like to read,” Daniel ventures, pressing forward. “I’ve seen you, a few times, out underneath the apple tree, but they say you’ve got piles upon piles inside of the house. They say there are days you practically live in the library.”

Regina’s smile falters slightly and then tightens a little around the edges. Warmth blossoms in her chest at the thought of him noticing her like that, but the mention of the servants brings up the memory of Miss Laura, and, well. “Yes,” she agrees, throat thick and tongue tacky. “I suppose I do. It’s a nice way to be alone, sometimes.”

Something flickers in Daniel’s eyes, at that, something she definitely can’t make out, not with how little she knows him. But it’s there and gone in the blink of an eye, and his own smile looks a little tight in the corners as he holds out the parcel in her direction. “I thought you might like this for your collection.”

She takes it from him with surprising ease, Mother’s lecture about gifts a distant memory overshadowed by the light in Daniel’s eyes. She’s careful in the way she pries off the string, does her best not to make too much noise as she unwraps the paper surrounding the gift. And when all is said and done, she stands in the middle of the stables with a book about horses in her hands, and she finds that she cannot speak, her fingers reverent in their touch as she traces the embossed animals on the cover. “You seem to relish your time out here,” Daniel ventures quietly, and the tone of his voice makes it clear that he knows he’s treading a thin line here. “You’ve been spending so much time with Rocinante lately that I thought -- I thought if you wished to pursue your training, you might find this book helpful.”

Regina swallows hard, chin trembling as she blinks furiously against the sting of tears in her eyes. She remembers the swelling of sadness in her chest when Mother had rejected her Yuletide gift years ago, remembers the way it had wrapped itself around her heart and consumed her for days on end. This feels much the same in that -- overflowing and all-consuming -- but where there was sadness before there is only gratitude, now. Regina can see the lie for what it is -- an attempt at concealing affection. And this -- _this_ is something that Mother could never give her. A gift like this from Mother would be to make Regina into her very best. A gift like this from Daniel is nothing quite so simple.

He’s given it to her because she _likes_ it, and Regina has never had someone think so well of her as to indulge her like this.

“Do you like it?” Daniel asks awkwardly, and it occurs to Regina, then, that she hasn’t so much as spoken a word since she’s opened it.

“Yes,” she chokes out, surprised by the tear that splashes onto the embossed cover. She can’t quite bring herself to look him in the eye again, just yet, but she’s found her voice at last. “Yes. It’s… _beautiful_ ,” she admits, breath filling her lungs again. “This was very thoughtful of you.”

“You’re welcome, then,” he says, and he sounds a little relieved.

“Thank you,” she replies belatedly, snapping her head up quickly to look at him properly. She must look a sight right now -- snow dusting her hair and tears staining her cheeks -- but the expression on his face is still one of fondness and warmth, and Regina can’t be bothered to care about her appearance all that much at the moment. “I, um -- I’ve nothing to give you in return for it, though.”

Daniel does laugh at that and it’s a _beautiful_ sound, not devoid of warmth the way Mother’s condescending chuckles are. “I think that defeats the point of it being a gift, milady,” he says, and he is _teasing_ her. “I don’t require anything in return. I simply thought you would appreciate it.”

“I do,” she insists. “I promise I’ll take very good care of it. I’ll keep it safe.”

“I’ve no doubt of that,” he says, and this, Regina thinks, is what faith must feel like.

It feels like hope.

She is the last to hesitate tonight, lip worried between her teeth as she glances down at the book one more time before clutching it tightly against her chest. “I wonder,” she ventures, heart beating senselessly in her chest again, “if you might do the same for me.”

His expression is quizzical when she looks up at him again, and there is something almost wanting in his voice. “Milady?”

Gone is her hesitation as she takes a step forward, effectively eliminating the last of any reasonable amount of personal space between them. A beat, then, to look up into the light of his eyes, and then her lips are pressed against his. He inhales sharply in reply but doesn’t pull away, and she can feel his hands hovering by her sides. He tilts his head to the side a little, presses in a little more insistently, and _oh_.

Magic cannot be evil when it feels like this, and this, she thinks, must be what love feels like.

They’re both slow to exhale when they pull apart, breathing mingling between them, and her voice is scratchy and raw when she speaks. “Will you keep that safe for me?” she asks, unable to tear her eyes away from his lips.

Daniel’s hands finally slip beneath her cloak to settle on her waist, and as her heart beats a little faster, Regina finds herself suddenly grateful for the book pressed between them. “Regina,” he murmurs, leaning into brush his nose against hers. “I promise to guard it with my life.”


	3. Chapter 3

**three.**

Gifts are strictly business.

It’s the first time that Regina has really understood what Mother had meant when she said that a decade ago, but the art of crafting and purchasing gifts between kingdoms and royalty and nobility alike is one Regina finds she has to learn on her own. It’s her first Yuletide since her marriage to Leopold this past summer, and the monarchs of the other kingdoms are taken care of, for the most part. And for all that the kingdoms are on relatively good terms with one another at the moment (maritime kingdom aside), Leopold, it seems, is relatively disinterested in the specifics of the exchange at Yuletide. His advisors have chosen most of the gifts for his fellow kings -- George and Midas among them -- and actually have useful suggestions for the long list of nobility they’ll need to acknowledge this season. There’s a noticeable gap or two in the list: a baron who managed to insult Leopold, the year before last; an auspicious absence of a family in the Locksley estate in Sherwood Forest that’s been there for over a year. But all in all, Regina manages just fine, in the end, asks the right questions and pens her name at the bottom of parchment. It’s almost a nice distraction, honestly, a way to keep her mind busy when all her heart does is ache. Because at the end of the day, she really doesn’t care what jewels the King lavishes her with or what finery Midas or George or some incessant duke bestows upon her.

At the end of the day, none of that changes the fact that Daniel is _gone_ , and the hole in Regina’s heart bleeds her dry.

She does struggle, though, when she realizes that she’s expected to come up with some sort of gift for Snow, and the mere thought is enough to make her blood boil. It’s unfair to think that Snow has taken _everything_ from her, and _still_ Regina is expected to give her the world. But it’s something she _must_ do -- she doesn’t have a choice (she never has a choice) -- and as the time for Yuletide draws nearer, Regina finds herself seeking out help from the Princess’ handmaiden, Johanna.

“I’ve been wondering about that myself, Your Majesty,” Johanna admits, and there’s something about the way she never quite looks Regina in the eye that provokes something… curious in her. “Last Yuletide was the only one that the Princess spent without a mother. The whole thing was a rather quiet affair, though not nearly as unnoted as her birthday earlier this year.”

Regina arches an eyebrow and does her absolute best not to let her derision come through in her tone. “She’s the center of attention at court,” Regina reasons. “I can’t imagine the King would let her birthday pass without fanfare.”

Johanna looks away deliberately, this time, shifting from one foot to another before she speaks. “It was also the anniversary of the late queen’s death, ma’am.”

It’s Regina’s turn to be uncomfortable, now, muscles tense and breathing sharp at the reminder of the woman she’s meant to replace -- the woman she will never, she suspects, really replace. “I see,” Regina says quietly, not wanting to dwell on the subject further. “Do you think the Princess will want to abstain from exchanging gifts at Yuletide as well, then?”

Johanna shifts her gaze back toward Regina, again just shy of actually meeting her eyes, but there’s a hint of fondness in her smile -- for Snow, Regina imagines. “No, actually,” Johanna says. “The Princess wishes to celebrate the season with her new family. She’s taking great pains to find something fitting for you, Your Majesty.”

She should be annoyed at that, honestly, should be bitter about Snow finding new ways to cling even more tightly to Regina, but… she’s not. For all that Snow is the reason Regina is stuck in this miserable life to begin with and for all that sentiment is useless in this world, Snow’s affection, at least, is something Regina can count upon as honest. “That’s very thoughtful of her,” Regina says diplomatically, a little surprised at how much she (mostly) means it. She hesitates for a moment and glances around her chambers from her position on the chaise, thinking. Snow has spent a fair amount of time in Regina’s chambers since she’s moved in -- annoyingly so, in some cases -- and it’s only now that Regina realizes that it might not be entirely because of her. These were Queen Eva’s chambers, once, not that long ago, and Snow, Regina thinks, might finally be able to find familiarity and comfort within these walls again.

Slowly, Regina redirects her gaze to Johanna. “The late queen,” she says, choosing her words exceedingly carefully. “I imagine the King kept some of her possessions.”

Johanna _does_ look her directly in the eyes at that, her own eyes a little wide with what Regina thinks might be the beginnings of panic. “Yes,” she admits. “Some.”

“Do you think the King would mind terribly,” Regina ventures, “if you helped me look through some of her things? I was thinking that a token of her mother’s might make a suitable gift for the Princess, this Yuletide.”

The panic in Johanna’s eyes begins to recede, and there’s something almost… approving in the way she looks at Regina, now. “I imagine the Princess would be very touched by the gesture,” she says, “and I cannot imagine the King would find fault in that.”

They spend the afternoon in the refuge of one of the vacant chambers in the opposite wing, each of them digging their way through trunks and bookshelves and wardrobes alike. It’s not until they’ve been there well over an hour and Regina is thumbing her way through the last of the admittedly very small book collection that either of them speaks at all, and Johanna is the one to break the silence. “Have you decided upon a gift for the King then, Your Majesty?”

Regina drops the book she’d been holding with a too-loud _thunk_.

It’s an innocent enough question, she supposes, especially considering the nature of her marriage to the King, and she _does_ have an idea or two of what to give him, but the mere idea of it -- of giving Leopold something he actually _wants_ \-- hits a little too close to home, right now. He’d been very clear, on the night of their wedding, that her role -- her purpose -- in this marriage was much more than being a mother to just his daughter alone. He’s been paranoid since Eva’s death, though Regina supposes that’s not unwarranted, given how quickly her predecessor seems to have fallen ill and died. All of Leopold’s concern now is for his daughter, and in the event that something happens to his precious Snow, it’s Regina’s job to… provide him with a replacement -- or at the very least, a back up.

He has no idea how close she is to doing just that.

They’ve been married less than six months.

It’s not… certain, not yet, but Regina’s bleeding has never been this late before, and she keeps having infrequent bouts of nausea. It’s likely, she thinks, that her gift to her husband will be the thing he’s so desperately wanted for months, but she’s not comfortable voicing the possibility out loud yet even to the royal physician, much less to someone like Johanna. Still, the mere thought of it is enough to make bile rise up in Regina’s throat, and she’s forced to press the back of her hand against her mouth before she can even so much as think about picking the book up off of the floor.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Johanna murmurs quietly, moving to pick up the book for her. “It was not my place to ask.”

Regina can’t find it in her to even say so much as _it’s alright_ , and she forces herself to divert her attention to a small chest in order to hide the way her hands are shaking. They lapse into silence again, after that, but even as the dust clears and settles, Regina finds that her stomach still turns.

She may be denying the inevitable, here.

She’s the one to break the silence, the second time, after she’s reached the bottom of the chest. Her hand encloses around something leather-bound, and it takes her a moment of examining it to realize it’s some sort of journal or diary. “Johanna,” she calls, sitting up a little straighter as she sifts through the contents. “This was the late queen’s, yes?”

Johanna moves to stand next to her and glances over Regina’s shoulder at the object in her hand. “Yes, ma’am,” she confirms. “It was a journal of sorts, I believe, but she also used it to writes notes or letters, from time to time.”

Regina knits her brow in concentration as she examines it further, fingers delicate as she works. The family crest is embossed on the outside of the leather, which is in mostly good condition still, surprisingly. There are scant but a few damaged blank pages left inside, the quill is broken, and there’s no ink to be found, but those things are easily replaced. It’s very different from Regina’s own diary -- a sacred object kept under lock and key away from prying eyes -- but that, Regina thinks, might be what she likes most about it. It’s something for Snow to call her own, something she doesn’t have to take from Regina.

And perhaps, Regina thinks, this might be an effective way to teach Snow how to actually keep a secret.

“What do you think?” Regina muses, running her hand over the embossed cover. “If I replace the quill, put in fresh paper, get her a new vial of ink -- do you think she’ll like it?”

Johanna _hmm_ s, sounding almost amused. “A private place for a growing princess to put her personal thoughts,” Johanna says, musing herself. “That girl has so much bursting inside of her that I think this may prove rather useful to helping her keep from getting overwhelmed at times.”

Regina works her jaw a little in irritation -- Snow’s life is _charmed_ in comparison to her own -- but it ebbs and fades more quickly than she’s prepared for, replaced by something… calmer. She knows how much keeping a diary helped her at times when she was growing up, save for those few months leading up to the wedding, after… after Daniel died. Having a safe place to put pieces of herself away from Mother’s prying eyes is one of the reasons her heart still insists on beating in spite of the fact that it is still -- always, constantly -- bleeding her dry. And this, Regina realizes, is a sense of understanding she really wishes she didn’t have -- a pang of empathy for the girl who has taken Regina’s life from her.

Under her heart grows a child Regina does not want, but _in_ her heart, there is a space carved out for the child she already has to call home.


	4. Chapter 4

**four.**

Maleficent has never really minded the cold all that much -- one of the perks of being a fire-breathing dragon, she supposes. She’d never even been bothered by it in the years she’d gone without her abilities. She’d longed for fire, sure -- for warmth and the way it sizzled in her lungs -- but she’d managed just fine without it. Her sleeping curse-seawater-toadstool combination had done _more_ than enough to take the edge off.

Who needs fire when they’re drowning?

And then Regina had happened, and, well. Suffice it to say that fire is not something Maleficent is sure she can live without, now that she’s got it back. She’d flown out over the mountains surrounding her castle this morning to take in the first snow of the season, the fire in her lungs more of a balm than any scales or skin. She’s conflicted about the impending storms in the coming winter, though. Part of her is looking forward to the solitude it will bring her for a few months. Stefan has been relentless in sending scads of men to her castle after what she did to Aurora, but the winter months should bring his futile endeavors to a grinding halt.

And if he does try to send men to her castle after a snowfall, well, perhaps it’ll finally give her a reason to practice causing an avalanche.

But there’s also a part of her that’s dreading the winter season because with the season comes Yuletide, which means that after today, she won’t see Regina again until after the turn of the new year. And more than fire, Maleficent finds that she’s going to _miss_ this girl. It’s silly, really, to have grown so attached to such a young, impulsive thing in under a year, but it’s the little things Maleficent will miss the most. She’ll miss Regina’s exuberant laughter when they’re flying between the kingdoms. She’ll miss the apples Regina brings from her personal tree back home. She’ll miss the reverent way Regina’s fingers turn the pages of her books, will miss having the opportunity to study her profile in firelight.

She’ll miss Regina’s fire.

But she has it for now, at least, so Maleficent devotes herself to soaking up all of Regina’s parts in the hopes that while she’s away, they’ll be enough to make a sum. She’s had more than her fair share of apples from the basket Regina had brought with her today in spite of how bland they taste on her tongue. She’s kept Regina much longer than she should in favor of answering the girl’s questions about potions -- something Rumplestiltskin, apparently, has been neglecting for a while. So Maleficent takes her from _how do you control heat_ to _where do you look for some of the more rare ingredients_ to _what do you do when a recipe calls for dragon parts_ and meets every question with a rather surprising abundance of patience and more than the occasional smile and amused chuckle.

The mood sombers, though, once they take note of the steadily declining daylight in the west, and they both know they’ve only got another hour or two at most before the sun disappears below the horizon. “I should be heading back,” Regina admits finally, fingers tracing the edges of her book. “Leopold and Snow should be back by sundown tomorrow. I wouldn’t want to arouse suspicion so close to Yuletide.”

“Much as I loathe to send you back to that despot husband of yours, I suppose I should let you go,” Maleficent sighs.

Regina tenses a little at that, but the moment is brief -- a flicker and then it’s gone -- before she changes the subject. “Stefan’s family declined our invitation to celebrate this year,” she reveals, glancing over at Maleficent with a twisted smile on her face. “It seems his poor daughter is… indisposed. They’re not much in the mood for festivities.” She hesitates for a moment before adding, “I suggested to Leopold that we send them a spinning wheel. I heard all of theirs had been lost in an unfortunate fire.”

A smile blossoms on Maleficent’s face. “The world does not deserve such kindness, Regina.”

“No,” Regina agrees, smile faltering as she looks back down at her book. “No, it really doesn’t.”

Maleficent’s own smile falters, now, the fire in her lungs twisting from ache into rage. Every breath she takes is freedom, now, freedom that Regina had helped her to reclaim. And while Maleficent lives and breathes, she is reminded that the girl -- the _woman_ on her couch doesn’t even get so much as a chance to draw breath. That man and his daughter and the nauseating little family they make are the ones who deprive Regina’s fire of air until it goes out. Maleficent is the one Regina turns to to reignite her fire and stoke the flames, a feat that has proven to be more difficult with each new visit. She loathes to think of what Regina will be like in the new year after being shut up with them for over a month in a high-stress political environment.

This time, Maleficent thinks, she will not let Regina’s fire go out.

“Before you go,” Maleficent says, rising to her feet and crossing the room, “I have something for you.”

“While I appreciate the gesture, I’m not sure potion ingredients are wise right now,” Regina quips. “I can’t imagine how I would explain dragon scales to my handmaids.”

“You should be so lucky,” Maleficent laughs, moving around to the side of her bed to pick up a medium-sized wooden chest from the floor. She straightens up and turns around, silently beckoning Regina over to her. “Consider this a thank you for what you did for me this year.”

There’s something almost… cautious in the way Regina surveys the chest in Maleficent’s hands, but she sets her book aside and rises to her feet, crossing the room slowly. “I thought that was what the magic lessons were for,” she ventures, lip worried between her teeth as she slows to a stop in front of Maleficent. “You said you’d help fill any of the gaps Rumplestiltskin left in his teaching.”

Maleficent makes an impatient noise and holds out the chest in offering for Regina to take. “Consider it a Yuletide gift from a friend, then,” she says dryly. “I’m not all that preoccupied with the particulars.” Regina’s brow knits a little as she studies the chest, but she doesn’t reach out to take it. “This is, admittedly, not very heavy, but if I’m to fly you home later, I’d really rather you take this off of my hands.”

“Sorry,” Regina murmurs, fingers reaching out to dance delicately across the the top of the chest. “It’s just that I’ve only ever -- nevermind,” she sighs, straightening up a little before finally relieving Maleficent of the chest. She moves back to the couch and settles down again, examining the chest more closely. Maleficent trails behind slowly and watches her, lips twisting into a half-smile while she waits for Regina to make the discovery. It takes less than a moment before Regina says, “It’s locked.”

Regina looks back over at her in confusion, but Maleficent’s grin just grows as she tugs on the chain of her necklace, the prize dangling in the air before she lets it drop back down between her breasts. “And I’ve the key,” she reveals. Regina holds out a hand expectantly, and when Maleficent doesn’t comply, it’s Regina’s turn to grin. She closes her eyes for a moment and takes a breath, rolling her shoulders back in an obvious attempt to relax. The chest wobbles precariously in her lap and still Regina stays composed, adjusting her legs to prevent the chest from falling. The distraction delays her for only half a moment, and with a cloud of purple smoke, the key on Maleficent’s chain rests on Regina’s open palm. Maleficent barks out a laugh in surprise, and when Regina opens her eyes, there is light in her irises as her gaze rests on her prize. “You’re no fun,” Maleficent teases, but she crosses the room again all the same and takes up residence next to her friend again.

Regina rolls her eyes but doesn’t dignify Maleficent with more of a response than that. Carefully, she inserts the key into the lock and turns before pushing the lid open. Her shoulders fall a little when she sees what’s inside. “It’s empty.”

Maleficent smiles bemusedly at her and leans against the back of the couch, head propped up by her hand. “Yes.”

Regina levels her with a _look_. “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain the joke.”

“Not a joke,” Maleficent assures her. “It’s meant to be a promise.”

“A promise,” Regina echoes flatly, and oh, that stings more than Maleficent thought it would.

Sobering a bit, Maleficent scoots in a little closer, knee pressed warmly against Regina’s thigh. “One day,” she says, voice low and even, “when then time is right and you are ready, you will… dispose of the king.”

Recognition dawns in Regina’s eyes at that and she sucks in a sharp breath, eyelashes fluttering prettily as she blinks rapidly in surprise. “Mal,” she says, voice hardly above a whisper.

“One day you will,” Maleficent continues, pressing on, “and with him out of the way, you will finally be able to get revenge on that ungrateful little brat who took _everything_ from you,” she says, glancing down pointedly at the empty chest.

Regina follows her gaze, eyes a little glassy as she works her jaw. “If this is you trying to be _symbolic_ \--”

“When you are ready,” Maleficent says, reaching out to rest a hand over Regina’s where she’s gripping the edge of the chest so hard that her knuckles are turning white, “I want you to send this back to me. And whatever you need to get the job done, I will help procure it for you. I will do for you what you did for me. I will help you reclaim your freedom.”

Regina _breathes_ , and Maleficent’s heart is full of a fire she cannot live without.

Regina’s hands start to shake under Maleficent’s touch, so with gentle hands, Maleficent guides her into setting the chest down on the table in front of them. But Regina isn’t ready to be left to her own devices, it seems, because she grips Maleficent’s hand now, instead, grip so vice-like that Maleficent can feel it in her bones. “I’m not ready,” she confesses, voice quavering.

“I know.”

Regina swallows hard, gaze still trained upon the empty chest. “I don’t want to go back.”

Something stings at Maleficent’s eyes, but she blinks it back and keeps her focus on Regina. “Then don’t,” she says simply.

Regina closes her eyes and exhales heavily, shoulders slumping. “Mal, I _have to_ \--”

“I just meant stay the night,” Maleficent clarifies. She leans in a little closer and brushes Regina’s long locks aside, fingers dancing delicately along the back of Regina’s neck. “We’re losing light, anyway. I can fly you home in the morning. I promise I’ll get you there in time.”

Regina is quiet for a moment, skin overwarm to Maleficent’s touch. She’s struggling, Maleficent can tell, is debating with herself whether or not to take Maleficent up on her offer. But Maleficent is more than willing to be patient; she’d waited _years_ , well over a decade, before she made a move against Stefan’s family again, and she’d only done so at Regina’s insistent prompting. For Regina, Maleficent is willing to wait even longer, and she will keep this flame alive as long as it takes. But it’s only a moment and then Regina’s taking a breath. One breath, and then another, and when she finally looks back up at Maleficent again, her eyes aren’t just glassy; they’re wet. “Promise?” she breathes, and she is _pleading_.

Regina deserves so much better than what this world has had to offer her.

“I promise.” She leans in a little closer, enough to rest her forehead gently against Regina’s. “Remember who you really are,” she says. A beat, and then, “Stay.”

Regina kisses her _hard_ , and the last of Maleficent’s words burn up in her lungs.

The fire inside of her stays lit.


	5. Chapter 5

**five.**

Yuletide amongst royalty, Robin observes, is really unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. His upbringing had afforded him the opportunity to see how those with titles and at least a little wealth tended to celebrate the season: an ornate decoration here and there, a feast or two toward the end of the year, the exchanging of gifts with the reigning monarch. His winters after he’d left home had been very different; he’d been much more preoccupied with kipping into barns at night for shelter from the snow and cold. After Roland’s birth, all of Robin’s concern has been focused on replacing threadbare clothing and and sole-worn shoes and ensuring that there is warm food in his son’s belly.

This year is different. This year, the Merry Men have taken up residence inside of the castle grounds of the royal family, and with the first frigid snowstorm of the winter, they’ve moved their camp inside of the castle walls. It’s a bit much for most of his men, Robin thinks, to be cooped up indoors most of the day. They seek refuge in the gardens and trees within the castle grounds when the weather allows (because they are _not_ , the Queen had informed them stiffly, allowed to wander beyond the borders of her protection spell upon the castle grounds).

Roland, however, seems to be taking to their new living situation rather well. He’s rather taken with the vast expanse of castle to explore, sneaks into chambers and pockets a treat or two from Granny. The endless maze of hallways begin to play host to the echoes of his son’s laughter over the course of the several months they take up residence there, and more than once Robin has found himself roped into an involuntary game of hide and seek just to keep track of his son. Roland is as comfortable within the grounds as he had been in the forest, happily running from gardens to stables and everywhere in between. These adventures are admittedly much more worrisome given the current climate; there’s a wicked witch and a flock of flying monkeys on the loose, after all, and even with the protection spell around the grounds, Roland still requires a chaperone outdoors.

(Robin has seen the Queen do it more than once, has watched his son amble after her willingly like a happy little duckling.)

Yuletide brings more changes still. The royal family takes great pains to decorate the main hall in the castle (well, the Charmings do, anyway), and all in Robin’s band find something worthwhile in the festivities. Little John has generous second (and third, and maybe fourth) helpings of Granny’s special puddings and pies, and even Robin finds warmth in the festivities when Roland drags him to one of the dining benches, climbs into Robin’s lap, and asks for help stringing popped corn onto strings and wires. Roland’s delight is obvious in the color of his cheeks and the light in his eyes. The Princess -- Snow -- extends extra kindness to Robin’s son and asks for help decorating some of the lower branches of the tree erected in the main hall. Robin notices the way she watches him with warm eyes, her fingertips tracing the taught, swollen curves of her belly with reverence every time.

(And Regina, Robin remembers, is not the only person who lost a child in their return to the Enchanted Forest.)

And with Yuletide comes the sheer _kindness_ that this royal family can exhibit. Both Snow and David seem to have a surprisingly real understanding of the cabin fever that Robin’s men have developed with arrival of the winter snowstorms. In an effort to soothe the Merry Men’s unease and make them feel more at home, the Charmings have arranged for a distribution of sorts to counteract the cold.

It’s how Robin finds himself still in threadbare clothes at the edge of the castle gardens watching Belle and the dwarves sort through piles of wool scarves and leather gloves and fur-lined cloaks to give to his men. It’s where he is when Roland ducks and dodges and barrels his way across the garden to leap into Robin’s arms, cheeks flushed and nose pink. It’s when his son is in his arms that Robin discovers that amongst Roland’s new cloak and mittens and boots is a notable new addition to his winter wardrobe that no one else seems to have received -- a small gray knit cap. And it’s only upon inquiry that Robin discovers that the hat hasn’t come from Snow or David at all.

It’s a gift from Regina.

Robin waits until long after the sun has set and Roland’s chest rises and falls with the ease of a peaceful slumber -- arms wrapped tightly around his monkey -- before setting off in search of her. Most of the inhabitants of the palace and the grounds have at least retired to chambers for the evening -- unsurprising in the wake of winter -- but the few people Robin does manage to cross paths with in the palace cannot recall seeing the Queen since long before supper today. He doesn’t think she’d be outside at this hour, given how cold it’s getting, particularly since it’s not her night to patrol the borders. But there are plenty of places within the palace that she could be tucked away, so it’s with a heavy, begrudging sigh that Robin sets off in the direction of her chambers. If she’s also retired for the evening, Robin is loathe to disturb her privacy like this -- she’s prickly enough in his presence as it is -- but the conversation he seeks to have with her is private enough, he thinks, and she avoids him enough that he’s not sure if he’ll ever have a good opportunity to do this.

On his way to her chambers, though, he happens to glance out of one of the long hallway’s windows down toward some of the gardens, and it’s there that he manages to make out her figure perched upon stone underneath a tree. He knows full well that’s her private garden, knows she’s not to be disturbed unless it’s an emergency, but there’s something about her in her solitude that makes him wonder if the risk isn’t quite as high as he might expect.

And if he’s wrong, well, he supposes he might deserve the fire she’s bound to throw in his face.

Somehow, though, he thinks he’ll escape this encounter unscathed.

When he arrives downstairs and emerges out into the edges of her garden, though, he’s afforded the opportunity to see her a little better, and the sight of her is enough to halt him in his tracks. She’s still sitting upon stone underneath her apple tree, but her hands grip the edges of stones hard, muscles strained and knuckles stark in their contrast. She’s wearing pants and long sleeves, at least, but the fabric doesn’t look particularly warm, and there’s too much skin on display around her neckline, corset doing more than a fine job of showcasing her cleavage. She’s not wearing gloves or a scarf or a cloak at all, and her skin is much, much too pale for Robin’s liking. To her right sits a goblet of what Robin presumes to be wine; to her left, a bundle of yarn and a pair of knitting needles sits abandoned.

She made Roland’s cap herself.

But it’s not a thought he can dwell on, at the moment, because he can see the way her breath spirals like smoke in front of her and she still hasn’t looked up or so much as acknowledged his presence. She’s been driven to distraction, it seems, and though Robin has no idea how long she’s been sitting out here, this, he thinks, is long enough. He doesn’t think twice about crossing the threshold into the garden proper, doesn’t so much as spare a thought for seared skin as he kneels down in front of her. From this angle, he can see that her eyes are closed, her cheeks flushed with color (most likely from the wine), and she’s actually _shivering_ , tremors quaking their way up and down her arms.

Quickly, he unfastens his cloak and moves to drape it around her shoulders, his own fingers fumbling to redo the clasp. He hadn’t thought to be out here, tonight, and so had left his gloves inside. He’s paying for it now, fingers stiff and freezing from the cold, but it’s nothing, he thinks, to the frigid chill he thinks Regina must be feeling. She takes a deeper breath once the fabric settles around her shoulders, the only sign that she’s even partially present at all, but it’s not enough to quell the way his stomach flips and churns with unease. So he unloops his scarf from around his neck, mentally berating himself for not having replaced either article earlier today, before carefully leaning in closer to drape it strategically around Regina’s neck. It’s only when his fingertips brush against the skin of her neck that she finally looks up at him, and there is something so startlingly open in her eyes that it steals the breath from his lungs for a moment.

He wants to kiss her.

He’s wanted to kiss her all year, really, ever since she first arrived back in the Enchanted Forest, but Robin knows all too well the way the pain of a broken heart can consume a person, remembers the warmth of alcohol in his veins and the way it had numbed his senses and his soul. If she’d happened upon him too soon after Marian’s death, he would not, he knows, have been in any such position to even think about opening his heart up again. And while the loss of a lover is very different from the loss of a child, loss itself is still very much the same; it still rips people apart in the same ways.

And yet the way she looks at him, sometimes, is enough to keep the feeble, flickering flame of hope alive.

But now is not the time. “Regina,” he murmurs, thumb tracing her jawline, “are you alright? You’re trembling.”

Regina inhales sharply, but much to Robin’s surprise, she doesn’t push his hand away. “It’s _Your Majesty_ ,” she says, very much without heat, “and no, I’m not alright.”

And all at once, Robin recognizes the openness in her eyes for what it is -- ache at the absence of her son.

He cannot imagine losing his own, and it’s not lost on him, in this moment, that Regina has done more than her fair share to ensure that he doesn’t have to. Saving Roland from one of the witch’s minions had been neither the exception nor the rule; it had only been the beginning. Each chaperoned excursion or playful tap on Roland’s nose or handcrafted gift has been an act rooted in kindness, and Robin marvels at the strength at which it must take for her to continue to extend it. It cannot be easy for her to bestow this kind of affection on his son -- to let someone into the cracks of her heart where she’s bleeding out -- and yet still she does it, over and over again without a moment’s hesitation.

Regina, he believes, is capable of giving so much more love than he thinks anyone else may realize (save for the Princess, he thinks), and no matter how much she bristles in his presence, no matter how many scathing remarks she throws his way or how many walls she puts up to guard herself against him, Robin cannot, he realizes, give up on her now. She deserves better than a barrage of constant loss.

He doesn’t want her to bleed herself dry.

But for all that she doesn’t seem all that upset or annoyed at his presence at the moment, Robin can tell that she’s not going to be easily persuaded to go inside just yet, so it’s with slow, tentative movements that he reaches down to cover her icy hands with his own. “I’m glad to have found you,” he says. “I wanted to discuss the gift you gave Roland earlier today.”

It takes a moment for recognition to dawn in Regina’s irises, but once it does, the openness of ache is gone from her eyes and replaced with something a little more dark. “I should’ve known,” she mumbles, sitting up a little straighter and pulling her hands out of his grasp.

Robin narrows his eyes, brow knitting in confusion as his hands anchor on her knees, instead. “Pardon?”

Her gaze is diverted away from him as she works her jaw, shoulder square as she inhales sharply in what is clearly an attempt to compose herself. “You know, Locksley, I can understand that you might feel as though I’ve crossed some sort of line,” she mutters, sounding almost… petulant about it. “But is it really so difficult to think that I didn’t do it to try and change your mind about magic or show you up or try to replace --” She stops abruptly at that, breath caught in her lungs as her hands start to shake again, and just like that, the ache is back in her eyes.

Gently, Robin reaches up to cover her hands with his own again. “Regina,” he murmurs. She huffs out a sigh that he thinks is meant to reflect her exasperation, but it just ends up sounding _tired_. “Your Majesty,” he concedes, not wanting to fight this particular battle at the moment. “I would never do you the dishonor of presuming that,” he says, and he knows he doesn’t have to say the name for them both to know they’re speaking of her son. Her hands still underneath his and she takes a measured breath -- in, out. “I wanted to thank you, actually, for thinking of him. He’s never quite had a proper Yuletide like this before.”

Regina rolls her shoulders back a little, clearly uncomfortable, and her voice sounds oddly thin when she speaks. “I suppose I know what that’s like.”

Curiosity burns at his throat, but Robin swallows his questions down and ignores the way ache scorches familiarly through his lungs. “And for the record,” he adds, pressing on, “ I know you didn’t use magic to make that cap.”

She glances at him sharply at that, eyes narrowed in what is clearly defensive accusation, but Robin evades her daggers and merely glances over pointedly at the needles and yarn to her left. She follows his shifting gaze haltingly and has the decency to look a little caught out at the presumption of her own. “Did you --” She pauses, briefly, to clear her throat. “Did you think it beneath me?”

Robin feels the slight tug of a smile pull at the corner of his lips, but he can’t quite manage to let it bloom all the way. “A bit, perhaps,” he allows, “but a mother would never think such a thing.”

It’s too much, he thinks, if the way audible way she swallows and the rapid way she blinks are any indication. She won’t look at him again, keeps her gaze trained steadfastly on whatever project she’d been working on earlier, but Robin can see the wetness that gathers on her bottom lashes, and that, he thinks, is enough for him to _know_. “Yes, well, I, um --” She stops, huffs out a frustrated breath as she tries desperately to keep the last vestiges of her composure. She glances back over to her right to the goblet of wine, and it’s only then that Robin realizes it’s empty. “The thought of him developing a cold or a fever is one that doesn’t sit well with me.”

“I could say the same for you,” he says, and it’s _careless_ , words tumbling out of his mouth before he can so much as think them through. Slowly, she glances back over at him, eyes betraying her curiosity. There’s something almost… _wanting_ in her gaze, and this, Robin thinks, is a mistake worth making. “Your hands are cold.”

“So are yours,” she murmurs, not missing a beat, and her gaze shifts down in the general direction of his mouth.

She wants to kiss him, too.

_Fuck_.

It takes more will than Robin is proud of to bury his desire back down and pull away, and even as he pushes himself to his feet, he doesn’t miss the way disappointment flickers across her face. “I suppose we should go back inside, then,” he reasons, steadfastly ignoring the way his heart thunders senselessly against his chest.

She’s quiet for a long moment before she looks away again. “Yes, I suppose we should,” she says, and it doesn’t sound like an agreement at all. But the mistake has been made twice over, and Robin is forced to bite his tongue as Regina divests herself of his cloak and scarf to return them. “You should really see about getting those replaced,” she suggests. And _there’s_ the smile Robin had suppressed earlier, a bright blossom beyond his control that betrays how touched he is by concern, but the way Regina _tsk_ s and narrows her eyes in reply is almost equally teasing. “They smell like forest.”

Robin bites back the rest of his grin, satisfaction welling up like a wave in his chest. “I’ll see if there are any left in the morning, Your Majesty,” he says gamely, eyes falling to her needles and yarn, “though I imagine the quality will be a bit subpar in comparison to Roland’s hat.”

She rolls her eyes as she reaches for her project, but he doesn’t miss the slight tinge of color in her cheeks at the compliment. “Good night, _thief_ ,” she bids him, and as she brushes past him, Robin could swear he almost sees her smile.

In the morning, a new scarf is delivered to Robin’s chambers.


	6. Chapter 6

**\+ 1.**

On Christmas Eve, Regina lingers in the doorway of her bedroom with a box in her hand and a smile on her face. It’s relatively early in the evening, still, but Robin has opted to leave the nightstand lamps off in favor of plugging in the string of holiday lights Regina had hung up earlier today. She’s not much one for decorating her personal space like this, but the reason for doing so is, as always, an exception to her many rules. And if she’s honest with herself, the soft hue of rainbow fluorescents dancing across Robin’s face is a sight she very much likes to see, even if they only illuminate his smile. He’s smiling now as he leans against the headboard, knees bent so his thighs can support the weight of the softly cooing baby girl in his lap, and Regina’s heart beats in her lungs. “I told you it would work,” she greets quietly, not quite ready to push away from the door frame just yet.

Robin turns his smile onto her for half a moment before turning his attention back to his daughter. “You were right,” he concedes, not sounding at all bothered about it. “It took less than a minute for her to stop fussing after I turned these lights on.”

“The magic of electricity,” Regina laughs. “I had to use magic in the Enchanted Forest last year to create a similar effect.”

“I remember,” Robin hums, finger tracing the slope of the baby’s nose as she giggles happily at the display. “Roland was quite taken with them. He’s thrilled you were able to reproduce them.”

“Yes, he reminded me of that about three times during story time tonight,” she says. “I think he’s a bit over-excited for the way Yuletide is celebrated in this word. I had to read four books before his eyes finally started to droop.”

“But you managed to get him to sleep, I take it?” Robin surmises.

“I did,” Regina affirms, finally pushing herself off of the frame to move toward the bed and climb up onto the mattress with him. “Roland is asleep, Henry is allowed another hour at most to read on his own, and I,” she sighs, tucking herself against Robin’s side and pitching her voice a little higher, “have a gift for you.”

Robin glances sideways at her, hands anchored protectively on either side of his daughter to prevent her from accidentally wiggling off of his lap. “I thought we weren’t doing gifts until the morning.”

Regina shoots him a _look_ , lips twisting into a smile. “I was talking to the baby."

Robin barks out a laugh, clearly caught off guard, but he smiles gamely at her and nods at the box she’s set between them. “I imagine she’s going to have some trouble opening that on her own.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to help her,” Regina sighs, grin breaking out in full when Robin chuckles in reply and shakes his head.

She slips her hand up next to his with gentle, practiced ease to keep the baby safe so he can use one of his hands to pry the lid off of the box, and she doesn’t falter when she hears the way Robin’s breath catches in his chest. She watches his fingers trace the edges of the tree ornament inside of the box, notes the reverent way in which he touches the plastic cradle and the way his thumb lingers over the words _Baby’s First Christmas_. “ _Regina_ ,” he breathes, and on his lips, her name sounds like a prayer.

She curls in a little closer and rests her cheek against his arm, careful not to jostle the baby. “It’s been a rough year,” she says quietly. “Between the move here, Shattered Sight, the Author, Camelot, and the Underworld, it’s been…”

The silence she lets linger occupies the space of two beats before Robin fills it, his voice warm and wet. “You were going to say hell, weren’t you?” he muses, the barest hint of a laugh in his voice.

She turns her face against his arm, fabric of his shirt soft against her skin as she bites back a groan. “Don’t tease,” she mumbles, knowing it’s up to her to get them through the rest of this conversation.

She feels his muscles tense and relax under touch, and the mood is much more somber when he speaks again. “It’s been a rough year,” he agrees, and neither of them has to mention her sister’s name for her to be included as part of that. “A lot of bad, but a lot of good, too,” he says, and it’s a reminder for them both. “You got to be with Henry again.”

She smiles at that, the memory of his breathless _Mom_ down at the docks echoing in her ears, and she’s quick to lift her head to meet Robin’s eyes. “I did,” she concurs. “I do. My family has grown rather a lot this year.” It’s Robin’s turn to smile again, this one mostly reaching his eyes, and where he moves his fingers from the ornament to the ring on her left hand, she runs hers along the bottom of the baby’s pajama-clad foot. She lets the silence linger for a moment longer, eyes focused on the point of contact between the three of them. “I just… wanted to make sure you know that she’s part of that.”

She can see Robin’s expression out of the corner of her eye, can see the way his smile falters and his eyes narrow. “Do you think I doubt you?”

“No,” Regina assures him, corner of her mouth twitching upward as she watches the baby’s eyes start to droop. “It’s just -- my mother was never particularly fond of Yuletide, that’s all. I gave her a gift once, as a child, and she ended up lecturing me on how we couldn’t afford to be sentimental.”

A beat, and then, “I’ve only met your mother in the Underworld, but I can’t say I’m all that surprised.”

She nudges him gently with her elbow. “I’m being serious,” she says, but her voice breaks open into light halfway through the sentence and tapers off into a whisper once she realizes that the baby is practically already asleep. She’s quiet for a moment as the baby smacks her lips softly before finally giving into slumber. “You know, I will never understand how she falls asleep that easily,” she murmurs, lips curving into a smile.

Robin shifts a little to pick the baby up off of his lap and cradle her against his chest. “‘s your voice that does it,” he mumbles back, keeping his voice low so he doesn’t wake her. And it’s a perfectly logical thing, really; Regina has spent enough time in this world to understand the difference that the cadences of voices have on babies. But the sentiment behind the statement is not lost on her, and she cannot help the tears that sting at her eyes.

If only Mother could see her now.

Quietly, Regina clears her throat and curls in as close as she possibly can, fingertips following the up-down swoop of Robin’s hand as he rubs his daughter’s back soothingly. “You know,” she says, resting her cheek against Robin’s free shoulder, “my mother also used to tell me that love is weakness. I can afford a lot of things now that I know it’s not.”

“Like being sentimental?” Robin guesses, sounding almost bemused. Regina draws in a breath to answer, but her fingertips slow and still as the baby snuffles a little in her sleep, her own fingers curling reflexively into Robin’s shirt.

Somewhere in her, Regina’s heart cracks open and bleeds, and still it keeps on beating.

“Like choice,” she breathes, shifting a little to meet Robin’s eyes. “You chose me. Now I choose her.”

She watches the way his Adam’s apple bobs with his swallow, and Robin, it seems, is closer to tears than she thought. “You _are_ being sentimental.”

Regina bites back a grin and leans in a little closer, gaze dropping to his lips. “I’ve saved up rather a lot over the years,” she admits. “I think I can afford it.”

Robin barks out a wet laugh just quiet enough not to wake their daughter and gently presses his forehead against Regina’s own. “A good sort of wealth to marry into, then,” he teases.

Regina smiles as she brushes her lips against his, and this, she knows, is something he will keep safe. “The very best.”


End file.
